The Superbore
by T'Poptarts
Summary: Trip/T'Pol. The Vulcan Science Directorate has determined that watching sports is one of the most boring, pointless activities ever.


**The Superbore**

**By**: T'Poptarts  
**Disclaimer:** (c) Paramount  
**Summary:** The Vulcan Science Directorate has determined that watching sports is one of the most boring, pointless activities ever.

**A/N:** Not intended to make sense. I wrote it in the middle of the night before the Superbowl. Oh and there's a little CT throwaway reference. :p

Lots of thanks (and condolences) to my wonderful and courageous (read: masochistic) beta Distracted :)

The management is not responsible for brain damage caused by reading this fic.

* * *

"It's a tradition," Trip explained, offering her the large bowl of popcorn as he sat beside her. She declined, so he placed it on the coffee table in front of them, leaning forward in anticipation.

_Tradition_, T'Pol thought, wondering what other "traditions" she hadn't heard of that these humans had up their sleeves.

"These are the Patriots," he pointed at the team in the white helmets, "and those are the Giants." He then returned his focus to the broadcast, as T'Pol's eyes seemed to be focused on it now as well.

Silently, she studied both teams with concentration.

"They appear to be within the range of normal human proportions," she finally said, her eyes never leaving the screen.

"Huh?"

"The Giants," she turned to face him. "They don't seem to be abnormally oversized."

"It's just the name of the team." Trip concealed a smirk behind a handful of popcorn, stifling a giggle. Vulcans were so literal. _What would they name their own football team, if they had one?_ he mused, "_The Football Players"?_

T'Pol watched him for a short while before returning her gaze back to the screen.

"It's illogical."

"Dammit, T'Pol, for the love of... Surak," he blurted out impatiently, "would you just watch the game?!"

_Oops_. As T'Pol sharply turned toward him, eyebrow raised, he realized what a mistake he had made. He hung his head guiltily for a moment. "It's a _tradition_," he emphasized in a quavering voice, blushing as he slowly, and quite reluctantly, turned away from the action on the screen to face her as well, yet unable to meet her eyes.

Her piercing glare remained fixed on his apologetic face. She didn't even reward him with a blink.

"I watched that Mount Seleya Priest Chanting Marathon with you last week and didn't complain!" he exclaimed, cringing. A thin, cold stream of sweat began to snake slowly down his temple as the horrific memories of those torturous eight hours hauntingly resurfaced in his mind. He swallowed hard, feeling the chill up his spine raising those tiny hairs on the back of his neck, one by one. Why oh _why_ did satellite dish reception have to improve so much in the past 150 years?!

T'Pol's expression softened somewhat, though her eyebrow remained raised. "As I recall--"

"Okay, maybe a little," he interrupted her before she had a chance to embarrass him even more, if that were possible.

She tilted her head slightly in mild amusement, staring him down wordlessly.

Tongue in cheek, he gawked at her for a while, neither of them moving or speaking, surrounded only by the noise of the football game in progress, until he gave in. "It was eight hours!"

T'Pol's eyebrow lowered, her lips tightening together in a hint of a suppressed smirk, her eyes shining triumphantly as she slowly returned her gaze to the boring football game on the screen.

Following her example, Trip finally dared to peer back at the game. "Oh. _Ohh_! I missed it!" he cried in frustration, frowning as the cheering crowd of spectators was all that was left of an evidently brilliant play.

"I fail to understand the human fascination with people trampling each other like a stampede of wild sehlats," she remarked.

_And I fail to understand the Vulcan fascination with a bunch of priests_ roaring _like a pack of wild sehlats_, he thought in traumatized recollection, his body shaken again with the awful memories. Then his eyes returned to the screen, and he smiled. It was therapeutic. "Hey, come on, now," he protested, resting his back against the couch, "that's not fair. At least it's a sport." At her perplexed expression, he added, "It's fun. I played some football in college."

A puzzled eyebrow raised once again. "Lieutenant Sato said you never went to college."

Trip grimaced sourly, one eye narrowed into a mere slit, the other twitching uncontrollably as if struck by a seizure. "It was a _hologram_!" he groaned, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "And whoever wrote that holoprogram should go straight to hell."

"Or just watch a few of these football games," T'Pol added.

"Yeah, with _you_." Trip sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Defeated, he grabbed the bowl of popcorn, rose from his seat, and made his way to the bedroom.

T'Pol listened intently for a while. She heard the bedroom TV come on, providing a faint echo to the game on the screen in front of her. She heard Trip yell and cheer in great excitement. She tilted her head in puzzlement.

Then, she calmly reached forward and grabbed the remote control. Reclining, she rested her feet on the coffee table and pressed the remote, switching to the Ultimate Meditation Championship on the IDIC Channel.

Delightful.

The End (Muahaha)


End file.
